Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Amanda Valentine 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover photograph © Lauren Hammond Photography (girl); Shutterstock (letters and tree)
Amanda Valentine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008116491
Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008116507
Version 2015-10-21
Dedication
In memory of Donna Hall
‘What you see depends on what you’re looking for.’
Anon.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgements
If You Enjoyed The Child’s Secret, You Might Enjoy The Missing Husband
Q & A
Reading Group Questions
About the Author
Also by Amanda Brooke
About the Publisher
1
Wednesday 7 October 2015
The muscles in Sam’s calves screamed with pain as he turned the last corner. His legs were shaking but he didn’t slow as he started up the hill that would take him home. He was in pretty good shape for forty, and more than used to pushing himself to the limit as if training for a marathon, but there would be no finishing line for Sam McIntyre. He had never been able to outrun his thoughts and today was no exception.
‘Not far to go now, boy,’ he promised the dog trotting alongside him.
Jasper, a chocolate-brown cocker spaniel, was little more than a pup and he had been struggling to match his master’s stamina. At one point that morning Sam had thought he would have to carry him, but the dog had picked up the scent of home and was now straining at his leash.
Sam put his head down as they entered the final stretch and it was only when he stumbled to a stop on the driveway that he registered the police car parked outside the house he shared with his landlady. There were two policemen waiting on his doorstep and while the one in uniform spoke quickly into his radio, the other approached Sam.
‘Mr McIntyre?’
Sam glanced only briefly at the warrant card DCI Harper was showing him. He was more interested in checking the house for signs of the catastrophe that would explain the need for a police presence. The drive was covered in a thick carpet of sodden autumn leaves with the exception of a small square next to Sam’s Land Rover. His landlady had left in her battered old Mini earlier that morning and hadn’t yet returned home.
‘What’s happened? Is it Selina?’
‘Selina?’
‘Selina Raymond. My landlady.’
‘No,’ Harper said dismissively. ‘Could we have a word with you, please?’
‘About?’ Sam asked as he raked his fingers through his short-cropped hair that was more salt than pepper around his temples.
‘Perhaps we could go inside first?’
Sam wasn’t so much followed by the police officers as he was escorted up the handful of steps to the front door of the large Georgian house. Stepping into a wide communal hallway, Selina’s ground-floor apartment was on the left and at the far end there was another door that accessed a shared utility room and the rear gardens. The curved staircase with its painted white spindles and polished oak handrail leading up to Sam’s apartment was among many of the original features which gave visitors a grand first impression of the house, but both policemen remained impassive as they headed upstairs. The only sound came from heavy police boots and Jasper’s laboured breathing.
Once inside, Sam turned to Harper who was a few years younger than Sam and a fair bit shorter and wider too. He had a round face and the kind of smile that would earn him a fortune as a used-car salesman.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is about now?’
Harper appeared more interested in taking in every detail of Sam’s living quarters than answering the question. The door to the apartment opened directly to a living room that had access to a small kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. The room was wide and spacious and there was plenty of light, albeit grey, coming from a large picture window to the front of the house and a smaller one to the rear. The furnishings were sparse: a small dining table, two armchairs – only one of which showed any signs of wear and tear – and a bookshelf which was almost as bare as the room itself. The floorboards were polished, but there was no rug or any other homely touches to speak of, except for a couple of garish crocheted cushions.
While he waited, Sam watched Jasper disappear into the kitchen and the sound of frantic lapping from his water bowl quickly followed.
‘You live here on your own?’ Harper asked eventually.
‘Just me and the dog.’
‘And you’ve been out for a run?’
Dripping with sweat, Sam opened up his arms and invited the detective to take in his attire. ‘Aye,’ he answered in his soft Scottish lilt, his voice sounding pleasant enough despite his instincts telling him he should be cautious.
‘How long were you out for?’
Sam glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, which was showing half past twelve, and he did a quick calculation. ‘A couple of hours, maybe.’
‘I thought runners wore watches to time themselves?’ Harper said, glancing at Sam’s bare wrist.
Sam shrugged. He had long since lost all desire to track the passage of time and hadn’t worn a watch in six years. ‘I don’t,’ he answered bluntly, having decided
that he wasn’t going to give any more information than was absolutely necessary until the detective explained what it was he wanted.
Harper was nodding as he drew his own conclusions. ‘Two hours. That must have been some run.’
‘Nothing unusual.’
‘So how far did you get?’
‘Not that far. I ran towards Allerton, then Garston, before sweeping around towards Hunts Cross. It was the first time out running for Jasper so we walked for a while too.’
‘Did you go through the park?’
‘Calderstones? Yes, I cut through it on the way out, but we came along Menlove Avenue on the way home,’ he said as he rubbed his clean-shaven chin and neck where the sweat had begun to dry and tickle. ‘Has something happened there? I work in the park.’
‘Yes, we know. And you only left the house at about half ten, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not before?’
‘It could have been nearer to ten but no earlier,’ Sam said as he sat down heavily at the dining room table, which was clear except for a single sheet of silky smooth paper. The six-inch square was dark green with a pattern of yellow flowers and he played with a corner while waiting for Harper to explain himself. His patience eventually paid off.
‘At approximately nine o’clock this morning, an eight-year-old girl was reported missing. While you were out on your run, Mr McIntyre, her parents have been frantically searching for her,’ the detective added helpfully.
Sam’s slowing pulse gathered up speed. ‘What little girl?’
‘Jasmine Peterson.’
The name was like a direct jolt to the heart but Sam kept his voice surprisingly steady when he asked, ‘What’s happened? Has she run away? Do you think she’s been harmed?’
‘That’s something I’d like to find out as quickly as possible for her parents’ sake.’
‘Have you spoken to them? Is her mum all right?’
‘Mrs Peterson is distraught, as I’m sure you can imagine,’ Harper said, and then his eyes narrowed, changing not only his demeanour but the nature of the interview. ‘When was the last time you saw Jasmine, Mr McIntyre?’
A flicker of guilt crossed Sam’s face but he hid it well. ‘It was a while ago. Two weeks, maybe.’
‘That long?’ Harper said, less concerned with hiding his own reactions. ‘But you had become very close to her, hadn’t you?’ Before Sam could respond, he added, ‘And yet you haven’t known her very long at all.’
2
Six Months Earlier
Thursday 23 April 2015
‘Does it hurt?’
Scanning the group of schoolchildren, Sam searched out the owner of the fragile voice which had been difficult to hear above the whispers and giggles of her peers. A small cluster of girls to the back of the group had turned around and he followed their gaze. The girl standing behind them was taller than many of her classmates and yet so insubstantial she was hardly there at all. Her head was dipped and her long blonde hair fell poker straight over her shoulders. Her blue eyes fixed directly on Sam and worry hung like a veil over her face.
‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘Does what hurt?’
‘The tree. Does it feel pain?’
A frown furrowed Sam’s brow as he considered his answer. He had given countless tours of Calderstones Park in his time and the Allerton Oak was one of the highlights, for him as much as anyone. The behemoth was estimated to be a thousand years old and had remained rooted to the spot while the human race rushed past towards bright futures that had quickly receded into the dim and distant past. Had the tree been an impassive observer or did it somehow absorb the trials and tribulations of the people who had taken shelter beneath its heavy boughs? Was that what the girl was asking? It was a good question if it was.
One of the boys nudged his friend and Sam knew instinctively that there was a derisive comment on its way. The Allerton Oak was the last stop of his guided tour and he had already worked out who were the troublemakers – they were easier to spot than the quiet ones. The boy in question had taken a deep breath and was opening his mouth when Sam beat him to it. ‘It does look like it should hurt, doesn’t it?’ he agreed, looking from the girl to the tree, his eyes drawing the children’s gaze away from her willowy figure and towards the giant oak with its fresh green buds that were only just peeking through gnarled branches.
The group took a few steps closer and one or two leaned against the painted iron railings that formed a square to guard the oak from the more inquisitive visitors. The trunk of the tree was at least six feet in diameter but was by no means solid. The hollow at its core was large enough for a small child to stand up in. Some said it had been a gunpowder ship called the Lotty Sleigh exploding on the Mersey in 1864 that had split the tree asunder, but age had also played its part. Like an old man leaning on crutches, the oak’s boughs were held up by giant metal props to keep it from tearing itself in two.
‘This old gent would have been around long before Calderstones was a park and even before this land was part of a great estate – long before Calderstones Mansion was built. In fact, the tree is older than Liverpool itself,’ Sam said. He looked over towards one of the teachers. ‘Isn’t that right, Miss Jenkins?’
‘Yes, and when we get back to school we’ll be looking at some old maps which show how the area has changed over the centuries,’ she said.
Miss Jenkins was standing in amongst her class and when they had first met a year ago, Sam had thought her not long out of school herself. He had said as much to her and was surprised when she told him she was twenty-eight. The teacher was slightly built with dark hair and almond eyes that always seemed to be smiling and they were smiling at Sam now, making him uncomfortable. He scratched his tangled beard, which, in contrast to Miss Jenkins, made him look older than his years.
‘Why don’t you tell the children about the tree’s special powers, Mr McIntyre?’ she asked.
Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Now you know I’m not supposed to do that.’
The statement sounded like the perfect ruse to leave the schoolchildren intrigued, but Sam had been told on numerous occasions by his managers not to make up stories but to keep to the script approved by the park ranger services. He was meant to explain how the tree was reputedly the medieval meeting place of the so-called Hundred Court, but that wasn’t going to impress a group of eight year olds. Sixteen faces – nineteen if you included the teaching staff – looked at him expectantly. What harm could it do? he asked himself.
‘Can you keep a secret?’
When the flurry of yeses ebbed away, Sam made a point of looking around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Legend has it that this is a Wishing Tree. For centuries, people have written down their secret desires and placed them inside the trunk.’
‘Where?’ someone asked.
Sam pointed to one of the gaping wounds in the trunk. ‘Right there.’
‘So you just stick a bit of paper in the tree. Then what?’ said the boy who had caught Sam’s attention earlier.
‘Manners, Matthew,’ Miss Jenkins scolded.
‘And then what, Mr McIntyre?’ he repeated, sounding even less interested in the answer than he had the first time he’d asked.
‘And then,’ Sam said before clearing his throat, stepping back, and opening up his arms. He tilted back his head. ‘You close your eyes and listen.’
‘To what?’ whispered one of the girls closest to him.
Matthew blew a raspberry and the whole group convulsed with laughter, even the teachers. Sam wasn’t sure how he kept his face straight but it helped that he still had his eyes closed and his face lifted towards the gargantuan spider’s web of branches. ‘You listen for the answer!’ he said, loud enough to shock the children into silence. ‘Listen to the tree’s creaks and groans and it will tell you if it’s going to grant your wish.’
‘Let’s do it,’ someone said and they all began scribbling on their clipboards. A few children compared notes and a couple of boys
broke out into an argument, but after a few minutes they all held their wishes in their hands.
‘We can’t reach the hole,’ one of the boys said and they all looked at the railings that formed an impassable barrier.
‘I can,’ Matthew announced and before anyone could stop him, he had scrunched his note up into a ball and threw it with perfect aim into the hollow. A dozen or more paper balls rained down in quick succession, some hitting their mark while others littered the ground among the haze of bluebells surrounding the base of the tree.
Sam sighed as he looked over towards Miss Jenkins. ‘That’s why I’m not supposed to tell anyone,’ he explained.
The teacher held his gaze a little longer than was absolutely necessary. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.’
Sam smiled and shrugged off the comment. ‘It’s all right, the boss will be happy that I’ve added litter picking to my long list of duties, because I do everything else.’
‘Shush,’ one of the girls said in a loud whisper. ‘We haven’t listened for our answers yet.’
Matthew and a few of the boys grumbled amongst themselves but eventually they all raised their heads to listen to the tree. It was only then Sam noticed that the girl with blonde hair had slunk back into the shadows of her own making. She was the only child who didn’t lift her head.
‘Didn’t you want to make a wish, Jasmine?’ Miss Jenkins asked when she noticed too.
Jasmine shook her head. ‘My dad says I’m too old to believe in wishes now.’
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